Hot Blooded
by Morality Sucks
Summary: What appears to be a wendigo killing off hikers in the Pennsylvania wilderness turns out to be a great deal more sinister and the Winchesters are hot on the case. Jo Harvelle's out for the same kill and the three team together once again to kill some baddies, get a few laughs and raise a couple eyebrows. Set somewhere in season 3, light Dean/Jo


Alright, first chapter! This is gonna get steadily more and more shameless Dean/Jo because there's not enough of that in my life so I have to write it for myself. For right now, you get exposition and delightful team banter. I'm obsessively writing this as close to a monster of the week episode as I can get, which means we start off with some mooks getting harassed. Feel free to skip the first few paragraphs if it escapes your interest, the boys show up right after, I swear.

* * *

**Pennsylvania Wilderness**

The setting sun illuminated the western half of the tightly wooded valley, lighting a scene that would be beautiful to anyone that wasn't aware of the malevolence stalking the trees. Fortunately, there were only two humans currently hiking through the eight mile stretch of forest, and they were much more than aware.

"Sun's setting, love." Mr. Smith said, with the slightest remnant of an Irish accent. "Your flare guns loaded?"

Mrs. Smith rolled her eyes, releasing his hand to extract the wide barreled guns from her chest holster. "Yes, mum, and my vest's all done up, too."

"Mum? How awkward." He laughed before pulling her into a kiss by her tightly fastened Kevlar vest. "And you don't come to my voice, unless… ?"

She responded by pressing her full lips together and whistling a simple, four note tune.

Smiling softly, he ran a hand through her close cropped red hair and answered with an inversed, trilling version of the same tune.

"Show off." Mrs. Smith grinned, turning her face to nuzzle her husband's hand.

He pulled back, unsettled by the stark bar of her pale skin visible through his calloused hand where his missing ring finger should be. That ghoul had bitten it off nearly a year earlier, and he still wasn't used to the sight. "Happy hunting. If it's our last, I'm content you were at my side."

Pulling him down to her for a hug, she spoke quietly by his ear. "Happy hunting. No matter how it ends, remember only that I love you."

The inflection in the formal farewells made it obvious that this was routine, but the way their eyes lingered on each other left no question of the sincerity. Turning in opposite directions, husband and wife disappeared silently into the underbrush.

It had been two hours since they'd parted and Mrs. Smith was just beginning to question their plan. Carefully examining the huge scores left up and down various trees that were the calling card of a young, freshly morphed Wendigo, she thought they didn't look exactly the way they should. About the time she noticed the scorching that accompanied the claw marks, she heard the scream. It was far off, much further than Seamus would ever purposefully go, but undeniably his gruff voice that choked away into abrupt silence.

She turned towards the yell just when her surroundings illuminated with a flickering orange and her wide eyes reflected a flare arcing back to earth ahead of her. All pretenses of stealth were forgotten as her heavy hiking boots thudded against the damp forest floor and she ran to the obvious call for help.

She stumbled across a small, whispering brook and spied Mr. Smith's Pack laying against the stream bed, contents spilling from a huge gash in the canvas. Swallowing hard, she paced along the trees, staring into the clearing. She had to calm herself considerably before she was able to force a whistle through her dry lips. She held her breath.

One note responded. Then two. More than enough to send her running out and staring heavenward where the whistling had come from, roughly displaced air causing her clothing to flap wildly around her.

Mr. Smith hung upside down, bobbing in midair, blood from more visible wounds than she could count pooling in his already sopping wet, dark red hair before drizzling slowly to earth. Four huge talons, each bigger than a hunting knife, were pushed through his lower back, sticking out his stomach and easily suspending him.

"Seamus!"

His eyes fluttered open, clear blue standing out in relief against the red covering his face, and he smiled reassuringly. "Get down, love."

A metal pin fell from his hand and she saw his fingers ease open on the handle of the grenade he held. She dropped to the ground and covered her head, bits of her husband raining down on top of her as an unearthly screech filled her ears. She glanced up just in time to roll out of the way of a spurt of flame, the next one catching her on the back, singeing through her bullet proof vest and clinging to her skin like burning pitch. She had pulled out the satellite phone and dialed the first number that came to mind, not even sure of the words that were coming out of her mouth as another deluge of liquid fire filled her senses.

The smell of her own broiling flesh and strange, impossibly high trills were the last thing Mrs. Smith registered before crashing into the shallow water and sinking into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Somewhere in Kentucky**

"You want a chance to win your money back, kid?" The squat biker asked with an arrogant smirk. You know the type; rides a Harley and has to remind you of that fact with every article of his snazzy ensemble.

"Ugh," Sam Winchester whined dramatically, pushing his hair out of his face with a pathetic shrug. "I'd sure appreciate it."

Dean watched the pool table with a couple casual glances from where he sat at the bar, unable to keep a small half-smile of pride off his face as his younger sibling over-acted his way to a double or nothing game. They grow up so fast.

After his second neat scotch, the Lynyrd Skynyrd song he'd been bobbing his head to ended and the track changed; the plinky, upbeat piano and guitar intro to Grateful Dead's Scarlet Begonias took its place. Dean laughed into his glass, setting the drink down to peer around the seedy biker bar; he couldn't believe one of these chopper riding mooks would be a Dead Head, he couldn't smell any pot. The quick smile he gave for his own joke froze on his face when he turned towards the music.

_"From the other direction, she was calling my eye. It could be an illusion, but I might as well try, might as well try."_

She stood facing the back wall next to the blast-from-the-past jukebox, a hand on the side of the selection case. Thick heeled combat boots stopped five inches below her knee, leather clinging tightly to long, slender calves. Dean realized with an unsettling surge of warmth in his stomach that what he'd mistaken for a knee length skirt was in reality a black utilikilt; a piece of clothing he had until this very second thought was only for neckbeard internet dweebs like those GhostFacer tools. A worn, black leather jacket hung off her slim shoulders, short enough to display a couple inches of a smooth back.

When her mesmerizing hips swung around so that she was facing the bar, Dean swallowed hard at the tiedyed Allman Brothers tshirt hugging her breasts, fringe covering only her ribs. Her Impala black hair was caught in a loose pony tail that had allowed several pieces to slip out, framing her pretty face. She was walking this way, her body swaying fluidly to the beat, and he couldn't help the cocky smirk that crossed his face as she approached him.

"Hey, what's a girl gotta do for another draft Miller?" The girl said, leaning over the bar and ignoring Dean entirely. She gave the tall bartender a seductive wink.

Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. He spent his life crossing the country to save people and stop the apocalypse(s?), but it's the tool that pours their drinks that chicks hit on first. He was so caught up in the unfairness of it all that he didn't notice anything was wrong until a plain faced brunette asked if he could do with a refill. He quickly turned to the back entrance just in time to see the door swing shut behind the tall, admittedly attractive bartender. The vamp bartender he and Sam were camping out to get the jump on, the knockout in a utilikilt right in front of him.

He swore.

Sam was lining up a shot that the biker was watching with growing dismay, the start of panic in his beady eyes. If he pulled him now, Sam would be forced to forfeit the considerable amount of money and very possibly be called out on his hustling.

Instead of risking the cash, Dean waved at his brother and pulled out his phone, texting him even as he strode quickly to the door. 'Dudes on break left with a civ. meet me out there after your game'

Sprinting towards the rear of the building that shared an alley with an abandoned car wash, he eased out the huge Bowie knife from his jacket. He swung around the corner and skidded to an abrupt halt, staring in confusion.

The big vamp's body was sprawled across the dirty ground, his head still rolling lopsidedly away from it. She had one booted foot planted firmly on his chest and was bent at the waist, calmly wiping a long KA-BAR on his loose clung bar apron, leaving twin trails of his own blood across the white cotton.

"Most chick's I know just carry mace."

"Well it's never too late to raise your standards, Dean." She said, turning to face him as she slid the military knife into its hard plastic sheath attached to her upper thigh. "I was starting to think you and Waluigi had no idea about this guy and were just hanging around for the cheap beer and gullible locals."

"Those are the only two things I care about when picking a bar…" Despite the alarm wailing in his head at the sound of his name, Dean found his eyes glued to the sheath and flash of white skin before she smoothed the skirt over it and he was able to look up to her warm, brown eyes. He gasped.

"What's the matter, Winchester?" Jo Harvelle asked, putting a hand on her hip and raising one eyebrow in amusement at his shocked reaction. "Pissed you didn't get to rescue the skanky damsel in distress tonight?"

Folding his arms, Dean put on his angry adult face. "I'm actually more pissed that Punky Brewster showed up on my hunt to kill steal from the professionals."

"Kill steal?_ Professionals?_" Her laugh echoed through the dingy alley and Dean thought that if she'd been wearing that same gleeful expression in the bar, he would've recognized her immediately. "Please. Give a guy a series of crummy pulp novels and he thinks he's the next Bear Grylls."

"Oh christ, you've read those?"

She shrugged. "I know a couple of hunters that hand 'em out like safety pamphlets; they're pretty useful if you can muscle your way past the terrible writing. I keep a dog eared copy of Route 666 next to my bed. You know, in case of racist trucks." She said this with a half smirk and a wink that indicated innuendo, but Dean could not for the life of him figure out the implication.

"Jo, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Hunting things, saving people. The usual business."

Gritting his teeth at the flippant response, he stepped closer and forced his voice into a loud whisper. "What are you doing here alone? And what in the hell are you wearing? Your mom is gonna lose the last of her shit when she sees what you did to your hair."

"I'm 22, dude." Jo scoffed, both eyebrows raised. "If I wanna dye my hair, I will."

"Oh yeah?" Dean reached out and tugged on her long bangs, smiling triumphantly when the black wig slid off to reveal her natural blonde restrained by a messy bun.

"Hey, watch it, pal! That wig costs more than the years of therapy you'll need after I kick your ass for touching it."

"Oo, mouthy as ever. You can have it back." He held it juuuust out of her reach, dangling it playfully. "Oh, what's the matter, Joanna Be-"

Jo's uppercut landed squarely on Dean's stomach, the remainder of his sentence trailing away into garbled gasps as he dropped to his knees. Jo easily took the wig from his hand. "No one calls me that except my mom."

"Whoa, what is going on back here." Sam had jogged around the corner and now slowly approached the two of them, hand hovering over the gun concealed in his waistband. "Jo?"

"Sam! Late to the party as usual." She barely spared him a look as she carefully examined the wig.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam rushed to his brother's side, offering him a hand that was promptly waved off.

"I'd be better if Junie B. Jones could be a little less_ punch happy_." He glared at Jo as he climbed, wincing, to his feet.

She shrugged. "I told you not to mess with my wig."

"Why are you rocking the hard disguise, anyway?" Sam asked curiously. "I barely recognized you."

"Yeah, neither of you took the time to look at my face in the bar." She grinned. "It's the perfect way to go undercover, most of the men that see me on the job can't look past my funbags long enough to ID me later."

Dean was uncomfortably aware of the aforementioned funbags and was struggling with every breath to keep his eyes trained on her face. "You mean the perfect way to get outta state without your mom getting a call about your every movement?"

Jo folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Maybe."

"This guy couldn't possibly have been enough to bring you all the way from the Roadhouse."

She pulled out a cell phone from one of her many pockets, checking the screen. "With crack detective work like that, I'm surprised there's any spooks left for the rest of us to hunt. I gotta go, you guys have fun with whatever it is you do."

Both Winchesters caught one of her arms as she attempted to push past.

"Uh uh." Dean said, pushing her back in front of him. "You're gonna tell us about the case you're on."

Glaring at both of them, Jo put her hands on her hips. "I'll scream and it'll look bad for you two."

"And we'll use our one phone call to tell mommy dearest exactly where you are before busting out and tailing you ourselves." Dean shrugged. "It'd be a lot easier to just come clean now."

She scoffed. "No way! You tools'll rat me out anyway, there's no way I'm gonna just let you have this one. Not with something this good. You'll take the info and send me packing."

Dean and Sam looked at each other, interests piqued. This vamp was the only thing they currently had on their to hunt list and they'd been planning on calling Bobby for possible leads after ganking him. They had a clear schedule.

Sam cleared his throat. "What if we just want to help? It'd still be your case, you'd just have a little extra manpower."

"To an extent." Dean muttered quietly.

Considering this, Jo bit the inside of her cheek, looking from one to the other. "And you won't squeal on me?"

"Dude, you're 22." Dean said with his charming smile, careful to not let his eyes fall below her neckline. He could just barely see the glimpse of bare skin showing under her too-small cut off top and he was feeling a gravitational tug towards it. "It's none of our business."

They'd tell Ellen exactly what was going on the second things got hairy, but the promise of a mysterious case was just too much to ignore for right now.

"Alright, fine. You'd hear about it in a few days, anyway. There's this Irish couple that made their rounds at the roadhouse a few years back, they were just the cutest thing. Absolutely in love with each other and completely accepting of the inevitable hunter's end- Had side by side plots already paid for somewhere in Ireland-"

"Adorable." Dean said dryly.

"Anyway, they went out on what was supposed to be a routine wendigo hunt last week. He was completely dismembered, a real mess that the forest rangers labeled as wolf attacks, and she's in the hospital in a coma."

"Well that helps make my point, there's no such thing as a 'routine' hunt. A wendigo has as much chance of punching your final ticket as the king of hell."

"It wasn't a wendigo, Dean!" She snapped, resisting the urge to stomp a foot out of frustration. "If you could just sit through one conversation without butting in every couple of sentences, I think you could really learn something. His wife made a call just before going down, a call to my mother. Unfortunately she was on the phone bickering with Bobby so it went to voicemail. 'It's not a wendigo, don't let anyone-' and then just..." Jo looked away, staring into the pitch black parking lot and pursing her lips. "Just screaming."

He recognized that stare and it made his throat tighten uncomfortably. She seemed so vulnerable, arms folded and shoulders hunched against the chill in the air while she brewed over painful memories. Dean wanted to wrap his arms around her and assure her it got better. It didn't, of course, but the sentiment might help. He would have done just that if his stomach weren't still throbbing painfully from her last hit. Best to keep a safe distance. "So. You're out here on a revenge quest?"

"No. Monsters don't understand things like vengeance. I'm just out here to save some people. Anyway, mysterious monster near the Jersey wilderness with the ability to deep fry professional hunters?"

"You don't think..." Sam left the statement hanging, laughing quietly in disbelief when she nodded. "No way."

"Yes way."

"Yes way what? What?" Dean looked from Jo to Sam. "Someone tell me yes way what or I'm gonna lose it."

Sam laughed again, shaking his head with a far off, almost wishful expression. "She's trying to say she thinks it's a-"

"Jersey Devil, Dean." Jo's grin covered her entire face and she looked at him in excitement. "I think the Jersey Devil has resurfaced and I'm gonna go kill the evil sonofabitch."


End file.
